From The Round Journey by Gavin Turner

A river ran through this land,

Where many paths cross, treading their imprints

Sludged through winter and dusted summers paths,

A web of lay lines mapping the way

The brook stopped babbling on,

Muting its chattering background noise,

Each path a cotton reel in the same leafy sewing box

Intertwined, knotted

Each ending is a new beginning

There is time here

To contemplate sleep, slow the churning river,

Whilst elsewhere, people trudge on with their own lives

Ignoring this haven of beauty and stepless steepness

And let you be in yourself, a void,

A blank space in between living,

Stepping on stones that shift along from

Remembering and remembrance